Perhaps you don't know it, but all of the best shit I write comes when I'm a couple or so drinks into my evening. I'm sure that's the case less often than I think at this moment, but with the smell of the gay bar still on me and the whatnot in my head, right this second it feels like I'm at my best/worst like never before.

Every time I walk away from the guy that keeps messing with my head. I'm left wondering what exactly just happened, whether or not I said what I meant to say, whether or not I read him and got what he was trying to say.

A brief kiss, shouts from a passing car, and I'm home and not as alone as I feel right now. And I don't really feel as alone as the words suggest. But I just don't know.

Maybe that what I should get tattooed across my stomach in that undeniable and barely readable old English script, "I don't know." I seem to never know.

I don't think I should have tried any harder or pushed any more, but maybe I should have. Maybe I should have tried more, but I don't think so. At the same time I'm so seldom sure of myself in certain arenas while too sure of myself and full of my rightness in others.

This being patient and slow that I've been doing feels right. This two weeks that I've been slowly chasing him, hoping he gets what I'm trying to say, it seems so right. I can't know. I don't trust crystal balls even were I to find one and see something in it. My gut says I'm okay, he's okay and we might well be. My brain does its usual and makes everything seem, not wrong, but not as right as one might want.

And I hope I'm not spinning my wheels. I hope I find traction.

On the other hand, maybe I should listen when he tells me I'm being too dramatic.